Whisky Rye
by Sylvie Orp
Summary: No such thing as a poor malt Scotch, Cowley maintains. Bodie finds out that there is.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It was a gloomy afternoon and Bodie & Doyle were finishing a search of the outbuildings for any signs of life. Finding nothing, Bodie was all for going home. He was tired, wet, cold and miserable. However, Doyle – also tired, wet, cold and miserable – insisted on a scout round the final building way across the yard. Bodie made a crack about Diligent Doyle to which Doyle had snapped that Bodie could always wait in the car if he couldn't be bothered. Rather than getting in a row, Bodie sighed theatrically and trotted off behind his diligent partner. A quick search around the ground floor revealed that it had been used as a squat. There were syringes on the floor and graffiti on the walls. The old furniture the squatters had brought in from somewhere gave it an almost homely feel. The rat that skittered across the floor dispelled any further rosy feelings. "Nothing," said Bodie in a told-you-so tone of voice. "We haven't checked upstairs," Doyle replied. Bodie threw himself into one of the old armchairs and put his feet up on the coffee table with finality. It was clear that Doyle was on his own on this one. Bodie had indulged him as far as he was going to.

As Bodie heard his partner patter upstairs, he cast about for something to occupy himself with while Doyle wore himself out on ghost trails. His eye rested on two lovely sights – one, a picture of a naked girl taped to the far wall, and the other the remains of a whisky bottle. As Bodie heard Doyle fall over something upstairs (a smirk from Bodie), he prised himself from the armchair and went over to investigate the bottle. The smell of the contents showed that it was still good. He took a swig. The bitterness shot fire down his throat. He coughed it up immediately. "God strewth," he choked to himself, "what was that?" He made a mental note not to drink from an unknown bottle again – or not for a while anyway. He threw the bottle against the furthest wall where it made a satisfying smash. A few moments later he heard an exchange of gunfire overhead. He immediately reached for his gun. The weapon felt heavy and clumsy in his hand. He never made it to the door.

Doyle was kicking about upstairs. He'd seen footprints in the dust but couldn't judge whether they were from yesterday or a few moments ago. He kept going methodically. Bodie would have to wait. Then suddenly there was a shot from somewhere. Doyle felt an agony in his left arm. He cried out and crashed against the wall but remained conscious. He saw a figure run across his sight. He followed it with his gun and crept round the corner where the gunman had fled. "Hold it!" Doyle yelled. The sniper whirled round to fire again, but Doyle was quicker and felled the man where he stood. The question now was – were there others? Doyle knew that Bodie would be close behind once he'd heard the shots. At least there were two of them on the job now that Bodie had been roused from his inertia.

That was at least Doyle's logical assumption. And one should never assume.

Doyle managed to finish searching the upper floor despite his injury and was now sure that the gunman had been alone. But Doyle also felt that he himself was alone. He hadn't heard Bodie around. Doyle's flesh wound was bleeding freely and his arm felt on fire. He made it down to the ground floor, holstering his gun so he could use his free hand to staunch the bleeding. Still no sign of his idle partner. He called out. Nothing. He was getting anxious now and very light-headed. He entered the 'living room' where he'd last seen Bodie. In a moment, Bodie was on him. He grabbed Doyle round the throat and was squeezing the life out of him. Doyle tried to choke a response but nothing would come out. He tried to prise the fingers away but they were like bonds of iron. Bodie's eyes were manic and bulging. He slurred oaths and obscenities as he crushed the life out of his friend and partner. Doyle struggled and tried to knee Bodie in the groin, but his body was too close. He was flattened against the wall. Stamping on Bodie's foot yielded no result. Doyle had no choice left but to reach for his gun before life dissolved altogether.

Doyle's lasting image was Bodie's flushed face, sweat pouring from him, and the demonic hatred in his eyes. Doyle's fingers felt for the trigger as he drew the gun from its holster.

_To be continued in Chapter 2 …_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Doyle desperately held onto those last few seconds of coherence to turn the gun around and belt Bodie over the head with it. The pressure eased, but still he wouldn't let go of Doyle's throat. With one final gathering of failing strength, Doyle lashed out again. Bodie's eyes went hazy as Doyle also lost consciousness. They dropped to the floor together in a sick parody of embrace. Doyle curled round his gun protectively. His faint didn't last long as he sucked in air as though it was going out of fashion. His head felt ready to explode. He looked dizzily at his partner shivering at his side. He didn't understand what had just happened. He refused to believe it.

Doyle tensed as he heard a car draw up. He knew he couldn't hold off an attack in his state, and Bodie was no good to him now. Bodie moaned and seemed on the point of regaining consciousness. Doyle couldn't hold him off either if he attacked again. He heard the car door slam. Doyle dragged himself to his knees and then slowly to his feet. His legs felt like jelly. He heard the crunch of feet on gravel. Breathing was still a problem he hadn't solved. He felt blood flowing down his damaged arm. He had the gun in his other hand but his vision was very blurred. He saw one, or was it two shadows coming toward him. Instinctively he straddled Bodie's body. He would defend him – them both – to his dying breath. It shouldn't be long now.

The new arrivals were Cowley and Murphy. They'd got fresh information on the case. Not being able to raise either Bodie or Doyle on the radio, they'd come on site themselves. On seeing Doyle barely standing, but nonetheless determined to do some damage to anyone who came near, Cowley and Murphy split up. Doyle couldn't take them both. Neither of the men understood what had happened – no more than Doyle himself did – so they approached cautiously. Cowley ordered Doyle to lay down his gun. There was a hesitation. "We come in peace," called Murphy raising his hands, causing Doyle to turn in that direction. Cowley took the initiative and pounced on Doyle. It was a risk as he was still too far away, but something of Cowley's commanding voice had finally penetrated Doyle's befuddled mind and he didn't resist as Cowley wrested the gun from him. Cowley handed the gun to Murphy as Doyle fainted in his arms. "Wasn't Bodie," was the only coherent words which Cowley could make out before Doyle left the world of men.

"Get an ambulance," Cowley ordered to Murphy as he lay Doyle down gently and went across to Bodie. He was instantly concerned by Bodie's high fever and shivering. Doyle was trying to cough out words, blood trickling from his mouth, as well as attempting to regain some semblance of consciousness. He tried to drag himself towards Bodie and his boss. "… poisoned," Doyle rasped before passing out again. It was only then that Cowley noticed blood soaking his agent's sleeve. Murphy had returned. Between them they applied a tourniquet while they waited for the ambulance. They tried to piece together what had happened. Cowley told Murphy that Bodie may have been poisoned with something and, from the smell of his breath, it was probably whisky. Murphy cast about for evidence and returned with the bottom of a smashed bottle that still had some remnants of liquid. They both smelt the substance and, like Bodie, couldn't smell anything wrong with it. Nonetheless they would hand it over for testing.

Cowley fussed about the time it was taking the ambulance to arrive. Murphy drew his boss's attention to Doyle's throat. What had at first been taken for shadow may be something else entirely. "That's going to be one hell of a bruise," Murphy commented. They both peered and could see that nail marks had bitten deep into the flesh. They looked at each other across their patient. "What the hell has been going on here?" Murphy asked – more to himself than for any answer his boss may come up with. Cowley said that they would have to wait for answers until one of them woke up. In the meantime, Murphy was told to have a quick look round to see if the pair had achieved anything before this – whatever it was – had overtaken them. Murphy returned as the ambulance was arriving and said there was a body upstairs. He'd recognised the man as one of the drug-smuggling gang. Murphy had also seen a trail of blood room to room and could track Doyle's progress as easily as reading a map.

Cowley kept Murphy at the site and demanded more agents to help him there. Meanwhile, he rode with the ambulance and the precious liquid. Bodie was becoming increasingly restless. His ramblings made no sense and consisted mainly of obscenities. Doyle seemed to have lapsed deeper into unconsciousness. Cowley didn't know whom he should be more concerned about.

Cowley had been told by the hospital that it would take a while to analyse the substance in the bottle and the blood tests – they'd also done a blood test on Doyle to be sure – so he had returned to HQ to harry any hapless agents who got in his way.

Murphy had turned up nothing further at the site when Cowley got a call to return him to the hospital. He called off his men and stood them down for the day – once they'd written their reports. At the hospital, Cowley was taken into a side room by a senior consultant. He told Cowley that Bodie had indeed been poisoned. There was very little in his system, but analysis of blood and bottle had revealed phytolime - a highly toxic substance. It wouldn't have taken much to have an effect, particularly mixed with alcohol. The consultant also noted that Bodie seemed not to have eaten since breakfast so the poison would have got into his bloodstream a lot quicker than otherwise. Cowley hadn't heard of phytolime and the consultant explained that it was a difficult substance to get hold of, was used in the manufacturing industry, but had proved (by accidental ingestion) to be highly hallucinogenic and addictive. Cowley asked if Bodie would recover. The consultant said that there wasn't enough in his system to do lasting damage. Bodie would have the tremors and fever for a few hours yet but shouldn't have any long term problems.

The consultant then turned to his other patient. "I would guess that, under the influence of the chemical, Mr Bodie had considered Mr Doyle to be an enemy of some kind and attacked him." Cowley nodded. He knew that Doyle would be reluctant to hit back – he'd be confused and try to analyse what was happening rather than fighting for his life. That would come later, perhaps too late. The consultant was guessing (it Cowley's job to firm up suppositions) that Bodie had tried to shoot Doyle before he got his hands round his friend's throat. Cowley however already knew the answer to that one. Bodie's gun hadn't been fired. Ergo: it had to be the gunman upstairs. The consultant went on to say that Doyle had lost a lot of blood (and oxygen) but hadn't taken in any of the poison and should also make a good recovery. Both patients were currently under sedation so Cowley would have to wait for any answers.

Cowley went to see his agents even so. Bodie still looked very flushed and agitated. His shirt was already wet with sweat. A nurse was in attendance. It would indeed be a while before he could be interrogated. Cowley's anger at the irresponsibility of his agent was tempered with concern at his condition. Cowley then walked a few steps down the corridor to his next problem. Doyle looked a lot more peaceful. The bruise on his neck was now becoming clearer by the hour. The swelling looked like a goitre. A thumb print could clearly be seen, as well as the nail marks. Cowley's anger rose as his concern for Bodie's wellbeing waned. This should never have happened.

Cowley had to wait till late next day before he could interview Doyle. The nurse said that he had been asking after Bodie and been reassured. Cowley asked the nurse if Doyle had said anything else. She said that it was painful for Doyle to speak as his vocal chords and windpipe were crushed. She asked Cowley to make his visit a brief one. He stepped quietly into the room and looked down at the sleeper. Doyle looked much less peaceful than he had the previous day as the effects of the sedative had now worn off. He was thrashing in his sleep and slurring Bodie's name. As the nightmare became more real to him Doyle began clawing at his throat, repeating 'no' and gasping for air. Cowley shook Doyle's shoulders, mindful of his injury, and repeated his name clearly in his ear several times before the struggling eased and Doyle dragged himself away from his bad dreams. Gasping and sweating, he looked confusedly at Cowley, expecting Bodie to be there instead. Finally realising that this was indeed his boss at his bedside, his eyes cleared and he became more lucid and concerned about his partner. Cowley had to reassure him that Bodie was fine, but still under sedation. He gave Doyle a glass of water and noticed that he was finding it painful to swallow and too weak yet to hold the glass on his own.

"I know it's difficult for you to speak right now," Cowley started gently, "but I need to understand what happened."

Even in Doyle's befuddled mind, his instinct was to protect Bodie. As a delaying tactic, while his mind caught up, Doyle asked Cowley to help him into a more comfortable sitting position. Cowley obliged. Doyle began his tale, and hoped he could remember it afterwards in case he was asked to repeat it - which he almost certainly would be. "We searched the main buildings with no result," Doyle started, "then the last building which was much further away. Bodie took the ground floor. I took the upper floor. I got into a gun fight with someone – I think it was Johnson – you know, from the drug …" A fit of coughing caught Doyle, and Cowley had to wait.

A nurse came in looking concerned. She gently asked Cowley to leave. Doyle hoped that he would comply. But when did that man ever follow orders? Cowley said he would only be a few moments more and Doyle could then rest. She looked sceptical and Doyle's ally left the battle. His heart sank. His hope had flared briefly that he could be left to concoct a better story than the one he was trying to think up on the spur of the moment. But hope died when the nurse left him alone with a man who wouldn't take 'no' from a nurse or a sick man.

"Where was I?" croaked Doyle, who already knew.

"Shooting up the bad guys," Cowley smiled. Doyle smiled shyly back. It wasn't often he got on the right side of Cowley and didn't want to discourage him.

"Yeah, well, Bodie was just coming up to see what was going on…" Doyle's mind was racing and, if only he knew it, Cowley could see in Doyle's face that the mind was racing. He was intrigued to see what lie Doyle would come up with. "Er, I don't remember much after that." Doyle finished lamely.

"Tut, tut, Doyle. Can't you think of anything better than that?" Cowley admonished gently. "To put you out of your misery, I'll tell you what I think happened and you can correct me." Doyle was very familiar with Cowley purring. It was him at his most dangerous. Doyle, like Cowley's other victims, was a captive audience. "I think Bodie was tired and hungry and wanted to go home. I think you went upstairs alone, Doyle. I think that while you were otherwise engaged, Bodie drank some whisky that was left lying around the place. That whisky was poisoned." Cowley paused while all this sank in. He was watching Doyle's face as he laid down his theories one by one. Doyle had closed himself off as much as possible, avoiding eye contact by studying the bed cover, but Cowley noticed that Doyle wasn't coming up with an alternative scenario.

Doyle's mind was still darting around. Poisoning would explain Bodie's actions. And his eyes – Doyle would never forget those demonic eyes – had the dilated pupils of someone high on drugs. His breath had also smelt of whisky. But to drink from an unknown bottle? The man must have been mad. No, there had to be something else. Not being able to think of anything else – or, indeed, to think clearly at all – Doyle asked where the poison had come from. Cowley explained.

"It could only have been the whisky, Doyle."

Doyle shook his head. "No. Ask him," he said firmly and loyally.

"I will once he's awake." Cowley waited for Doyle to ask the question. He wasn't going to lead him any further towards it. Doyle's eyes were drooping, but he popped the question.

"What poison was it anyway?"

Cowley smiled. "Phytolime." He saw that it meant something to his agent. "What do you know of it?"

Doyle repeated almost word for word what the consultant had said, his voice trailing off to a mere whisper. Cowley often wondered where Doyle mined his wealth of information. However his bright pupil was now almost asleep so Cowley decided to torture him no longer and left.

Cowley wandered over to his other problem. Bodie was coming round. Cowley waited. It took a while for Bodie to focus on the man at his bedside. It was clear from Cowley's silence that something was required. Bodie tried with a sleepy "Good morning, sir." Cowley told him dryly that it was evening. He then asked Bodie to tell him what had happened and that he'd already spoken to Doyle without, of course, telling him what Doyle had said. Bodie asked where his friend was – not how he was, but where he was. Interesting.

"Talk to me, Bodie. And I want all of it."

It was clear from the clipped tone that Cowley knew more than Bodie had wanted to confess to, but they say that confession is good for the soul. That may work for the clergy, but Bodie wasn't too convinced that it would work for him. However, Cowley's gimlet eyes bore into him. He knew how villains felt under the gaze of those hooded eyes. But there was a lot that Bodie simply didn't remember. After getting a glass of water down him, he explained about searching the outbuildings. "Tell me about the last building." His agent said that he didn't remember much. Cowley let the silence hang.

"Since you know it all if you want me to resign I will," Bodie finally burst out.

"And why would I want you to do that?"

Bodie cursed him under his breath. It seemed that Cowley wanted blood – and all of it Bodie's. "All right. All right," Bodie sighed. _Let's get this nightmare over with_, he thought. "Doyle and I searched most of the outbuildings. Nothing. I was all for going home. There was nothing there. Doyle would have none of it. We went into the last building. It was furthest away. We looked round the ground floor together. Nothing. He went upstairs. I stayed downstairs. He was making a meal of it and I got a bored. I found some whisky. It smelt all right. I didn't even want the stuff. I was cold, wet and hungry and just wanted to go home. As soon as it was in my mouth I knew it was bad. I spat it out. I don't remember any more." Cowley remained silent. Bodie sighed. "I think I heard a bang. It could have been a shot, it could have been a car, it could have been my imagination. I don't remember. I don't even understand why I'm here. My fever can't be anything to do with the whisky. I didn't drink enough of it – or any of it. I spat it out."

"It was the whisky, Bodie. You have been poisoned."

"Rubbish. There wasn't enough."

"Heard of phytolime?" Bodie shook his head. Cowley outlined the effects of it.

Bodie suddenly became very cold. And he didn't think it was his fever.

"Where's Doyle?" Bodie asked slowly and quietly. He was becoming frightened now. Cowley heard it.

"Not far away, laddie. A few doors down in fact. Recovering."

Cowley knew what Bodie's next question would be and wasn't sure how much Bodie should be told. That he'd tried to murder his friend and partner? That he was derelict? A sot? Doyle's conscience was clear for all to see, but Bodie had a conscience too. A late developer it's true, but there even so. The question came.

"Recovering from what? Did I do something?" Silence. Bodie was getting angry. "Well, I must have done something for him to be in hospital. You said this stuff was hallucinogenic." Cowley sighed. To say nothing was not only cowardice but also dragging out the agony.

"You did attack him, Bodie. Murphy and I arrived not long afterwards. We found you on the ground and Doyle standing over you, gun in hand, like the last survivor of Mafeking before the relief." Even Bodie had to smile a little at the image. "It didn't take us much to overpower him. Yes, we were gentle with him. He managed to tell us that you'd been poisoned. 'Wasn't Bodie' were his exact words as I remember it."

"Can't fault him on his loyalty," Bodie said bitterly. "You can fault me on everything else though – dereliction at the very least."

"Alcoholism?" Cowley fished. It wasn't something he wanted to face in any of his agents but he wasn't a man to back away from difficulties. Bodie denied it but said that, to satisfy them both, he was more than happy to be sent away to wherever Cowley wanted to send him for as long as Cowley wanted. He offered again to resign if he wanted that, too. Cowley saw that his agent was winding up and instead needed to rest.

"Bodie, you're becoming hysterical. That, too, is new for you. We'll blame that on the after-effects of the poisoning and concern for Doyle. You may have heard on the grapevine, over the years, that some of our agents were indeed alcoholics and have received treatment. Personally, I don't think you are one of them. But we need to be sure. So I will send you away, Bodie, and see how an alcoholic-free fortnight sits with you. If you're a gibbering wreck at the end of it, then we'll get help for you. If you can manage that time without falling apart – and I believe you can – then you'll at least have had a rest and we'll both be quiet in our minds that you aren't addicted." Bodie readily agreed to this and wanted to start immediately but Cowley put him off saying that the doctors here hadn't yet finished with him.

Cowley left feeling relieved that Bodie hadn't asked for specifics about the attack or Doyle's condition. He'd try to move Bodie from the hospital without him seeing Doyle. He didn't want Bodie to see those bruises. He'd know then just how close he'd come to killing. Murphy would be asked to keep his silence. There was loyalty there too. An agent who engendered leadership and loyalty as Bodie did wasn't one that Cowley would want to lose too easily. Cowley didn't need to be convinced of Doyle's allegiance. He knew instinctively that Doyle would play down the attack; probably not mention it at all unless Bodie backed him into a corner. No mention had been made of the shooting or Bodie's inability to provide backup when Doyle needed him. Cowley would brief Doyle and leave it to him how much Bodie would be told. One thing for sure, Bodie would never drink from an unknown bottle again.


End file.
